The farmer's two recruits hurried forward, blushing deeply as the eyes of the meeting turned on to them.
"You don't know what war is," O'Rane told them. "I—have been under fire, and, like Mr. Kestrell, I do know. If every man in this square volunteered, the half of you would be killed and those that came back would be cut about, crippled, blind. You'd have done the brave thing, but a lifetime of helplessness is a long price to pay for it."
"I'll take my chance, sir!" This time the voice came from the right.
"Two—three—four." O'Rane shook his head and half turned away. "I'll go alone and trust to luck. Mr. Kestrell——"
"Oh, damn old Kestrell!"
I could not locate the speaker, but the voice was new.
"He speaks for labour here," said O'Rane, "and, though I've worked with my hands in most parts of the world, I was a capitalist till the war. He says this is a capitalist's war——"
"Ay, and so it is!" burst from Kestrell.
"Then let Capital fight for Capital, and God help the working man who's out there at this moment if the working man at home won't go out and fight for him."